


Poor Jenny Is A-Weeping

by Fool of a Book Wyrm (Lafeli85)



Series: Exchanges & Gifts [6]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mystery, POV Alternating, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Eighth Year, loose ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85/pseuds/Fool%20of%20a%20Book%20Wyrm
Summary: “I work my way carefully through the Catacombs, doing my level best with the spells I can make work for me.I find hidden doorways inside hidden doorways. I find a treasure chest that’s snoring deeply. I find a painting of a girl with blond hair and tears pouring down her cheeks, actually pouring, like a GIF carved into the wall. A younger me would have stayed to figure out her story. A younger me would have turned this into an adventure.”-Carry On, Ch. 17An alternate time-line of Simon figuring out her story.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Exchanges & Gifts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077686
Comments: 9
Kudos: 76





	Poor Jenny Is A-Weeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY KRIS!!!
> 
>   
> I really truly hope you have the most amazing birthday. You're an incredible human and deserve the very best. (BTW, check it out! I learned to use a complicated #workskin thanks to all of the codes you left us! You'll never know how many times I almost DM'd you for help to code a fic I wrote for you.
> 
> Honestly, proof that your effort was not in vain is half the gift. The webdings in the end notes is just for you.) (Which, upon further inspection, I now realize most of these fonts don't really show up on mobile. So do me a solid and at least look at this on your computer so you can have the full effect.)  
> 
> 
> Thank you so much to [AliceLiddle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceLiddle/pseuds/AliceLiddle), [Amy (Waterwings)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings), [CaityBug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug), and [tbazzsnow (Artescapri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for being amazing beta readers and supporters of this fic.
> 
> **Update (2/20/21):** This fic now includes incredible art by the VERY TALENTED [Super-Duper-Twelve](https://super-duper-twelve.tumblr.com/)!!!! Thank you, Twelve. So much from the very bottom of my heart. You're a treasure and I'm so happy to be able to call you a friend. 💜

SIMON

The first time I saw it was in fifth year.

I’d followed Baz down to the catacombs, trying to find evidence that he’s a vampire. It wasn’t the first time I’d been down here, but I didn’t know most of the secrets of the chambers. I _still_ don’t know all of the secrets. I doubt anybody does, not even the Mage. 

I’d been trying to follow Baz, just far enough behind him that he wouldn’t be able to hear me. Which is hard, when you’re trailing a vampire. He can see in the dark and can hear my feet shuffling if I’m not careful. It was easy to lose him down in the tunnels, before I learned my way around. Figured out his patterns, which corners he prefers to skulk off to. 

I’d lost him, but I still had my security rope to lead me back to the entrance. I wasn’t ready to give up on finding him yet, so I attempted to cast a locating spell. My spellwork has always been shoddy, but I had to try anyway. _**“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”**_ I cast. A golden thread of light shot from my wand and down the corridor. I followed it, twisting down passages I had never even noticed. 

The spell led me to a small room, empty of everything except a painting of a girl with blond hair and tears pouring down her cheeks. _Actually pouring_ , like a GIF carved into the wall. 

I stayed for a while, watching her. I’d been living at Watford for five years at that point, and sometimes still couldn’t believe what magic could do. 

This painting was so _real_ —like I could reach out and touch it. I actually did try, but my hand misted over the canvas—no water, no evidence of the girl's grief. She’s just a painting. 

A painting that left me feeling her sorrow. I didn’t know why, but my heart felt tight. I wanted to stay with her, tell her that everything would be alright. But I knew I had to go. I had a vampire to track down. 

The second time I stumbled across the painting, I was in the catacombs looking for Baz. Again.

Part of me knew he wouldn’t be down there. We’d been back at school for four weeks and he _still_ hadn’t returned. Penny thought he’d decided to stay home, or maybe attend Uni a year early. 

His best mate, Niall, wouldn’t give up any information. I almost felt like he was hoping I’d be able to tell him something. Even Miss Possibelf and the Mage both seemed to believe that his absence was out of the ordinary and may be some part of a plan, orchestrated by the old families. 

I was casting every spell I could think of. _**“It’s showtime!”, “Scooby-Doo where are you!”, “Where in the world is Basilton Grimm-Pitch!”**_

Nothing seemed to work. I was getting desperate, pouring more magic into the spells than I should have. The amount of magic that usually causes my spells to go haywire, but by then, I was losing control. I needed to know where he was. What he was doing. I needed to keep him under my thumb. 

_That’s_ when I stumbled into the room with the painting again. 

It’d been so long since I’d been there, I had started to believe it was all a dream. A trick of the light or a game the catacombs was playing. 

Penny says the wards on Watford can cause strange things to happen. Some wings of the school have been magickally closed off completely (like the nursery, after the vampires attacked.) 

I thought for a long while that the weeping painting wasn’t even there. I had tried to find her again a few times. Something about the way she was crying, the way she seemed to be reaching a hand out to me. I’d been filled with this inexplicable need to find her.

When I told Penny about the painting, she was inordinately excited. It was another mystery to solve. Paintings like this simply don’t exist outside of fairy tales and curses. 

Pen thought if the painting was real, that the girl must have been cursed. As the Chosen One, it was my job to set her free. 

Even before Penny told me that she was probably a cursed soul, I’d felt drawn to her. 

I needed to help her. 

The painting looked the same as it had in fifth year. Her blond hair was still golden and perfect, her hand still reaching out as if I could pull her through the painting, her tears still streaming down her cheeks. 

_Does she look even more heartbroken now than she did before?_

I wonder how long she’s been down here, waiting for someone to find and rescue her. Was she a student here? The loved one of a professor? Maybe she’s another victim of a horrible crime that had been covered up and hidden in this forgotten corner of Watford. 

_What is your story?_

I know I’m looking for Baz, but I can’t let the girl in the painting go. 

“How do I help you?” I ask her. I feel like a twit, talking out loud to a painting. But I need to know. 

There’s no response. No sign. No clue about how to break whatever kind of curse this is. 

I stay with her for hours. Inspecting the room, running my fingers along the frame.  
Eventually, I have to leave. I’m exhausted and getting hungry. I have no idea what time it is. I still have homework to catch up on and I should probably try to get at least a little sleep. 

I press one of my hands to the girl’s (the one that’s outstretched, reaching for me) and whisper a goodbye. 

_I’ll be back, I promise._

_**Several Weeks Later…** _

BAZ

__

_“She said she was called here, to our room, that this was your place.”_  
_“She said that her killer walks. That you should find Nicodemus and bring her peace.”_

Snow’s words have been echoing in my head all night. 

I wake up early—earlier than Snow, even. Take a shower. Get ready for the day.  
We have a lot of ground to cover if we’re going to find her killer.

We. Snow promised to help me. Because she was my mother, and the vampires killed her in front of me. Because he’s never had a mother of his own to grieve. Because he’s brave and noble and good. Because he’s Simon bloody Snow. 

I’m already tying my tie by the time Simon wakes up. 

“You’re not getting off, you know,” I tell him before he can even think about backing out of what he said last night. 

“What?” He wipes the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Last night. You promised to help avenge my mother’s death,” I remind him. 

“I didn’t say anything about _avenging_ ,” he says, getting up from bed and shaking out his curls with both hands. I can’t help watching him in the reflection of the mirror. 

The secret to being in love with the person you want most but know you can never have is to never lust after him directly. I’ve become an expert in furtive glances. 

Snow spends the next several minutes trying to split hairs about the difference between _avenging_ my mother’s death and _helping_ me find her killer. (The numpty doesn’t seem to understand that helping me will be the same as avenging her death.) (When I find out who was responsible, I’m going to kill them myself.) 

Then he picks a fight about how he can’t _trust_ me not to secretly plot against him or try to push him down the stairs. (I didn’t push him. He still refuses to accept that he’s just an oaf.)

“Truce,” I snap, after nearly twenty minutes of his obsessive worrying. 

“Truce?” he sounds utterly confused. Confusion is his default setting. 

“Yes, Snow. _Truce_. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. There will be no acts of aggression until we’re through.”

“Fine,” he huffs. 

A look comes over his face, like he’s just thought of something. (A novel concept for him that I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed first hand.)

“Fine,” he says again, “but I have something else to add to this truce. Something you’re going to help me with too.”

“What is it?” I’m growing increasingly frustrated. He’s wasting so much time that we could be using to compile data. 

“There’s a painting in the catacombs. Of a blond girl weeping. Like, literally weeping tears down her cheeks.” He pauses and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I think she’s cursed. I don’t know why, but I need to help her. It has to be me, and I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

“The Chosen One can’t solve one of the mysteries of Watford?” I can’t help but antagonize him. This is supposed to be about my mother, and yet again, he’s making it about himself. 

“I’ll see what I can do, Snow. But my mother is our number one priority. I won’t put your cursed painting before my mother.”

“I know,” he says. “I just—this is really important to me, Baz.”

“Fine.”

“Swear it,” he says holding out a hand, “with magic.”

I sigh, pulling my wand out of my jacket pocket. No way I’m letting him anywhere near me with his own wand. 

_**“An Englishman’s word is his bond!”** _

SIMON

We’ve searched every issue of _The Magickal Record_ for a mention of anybody named Nicodemus. I’ve tried casually dropping the name to professors, but nobody seems to have heard of them.

Our list of _things we don’t know_ keeps growing but our list of _things we know_ is still the same. 

My thoughts begin to drift back to the catacombs again. To the girl in the painting. I haven’t had time to see her since the truce. Baz has us studying and researching all day long, and he won’t let me go down to the catacombs with him. 

He says he goes to visit his mum, but I know he’s going down there to feed on rats.  
He still acts like I don’t know that he’s a vampire. He told me to put my cross back on the day he came back. That's as good as admitting it.

I tap my pen against my desk. I’m trying to study for Greek, but none of these verbs make sense. I huff and kick my heel against the leg of my chair. 

“What on earth is the problem now?” Baz asks, clearly irritated. 

“I can’t concentrate on these translations.”

“And why is that?” he snaps. 

“I keep thinking about Nicodemus. We’ve exhausted every resource we have here at school.”

“So what do you propose we _do_ , Snow?”

“Well, we’ve done everything we can for now to try and find him.” I fidget in my seat a bit more before turning to face Baz. I know he’s not going to like what I want. “I think we could spare an evening to go down to the catacombs for you to investigate the painting.” 

He looks at me like he wants to punch me. (Maybe he does.) 

“I told you, Snow. My mother is my first priority.”

“She’s _been_ our first priority. Finding Nicodemus is all we’ve been trying to do since we started.”

He glares at me for another minute. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he finally says. “Put on your shoes and grab your wand.” 

“How in magic did you find this place?” Baz sounds surprised that this room exists. He probably thinks he has every passage mentally catalogued by now.

“Dunno,” I shrug. It’s dark down here, but I know he can see me. “Found it for the first time in fifth year.”

“Ahh,” he muses, “when you were haunting me incessantly.”

“I wouldn’t’ve had to if you weren’t so busy being an evil wanker!”

“I’m not evil,” he says. “ _How_ did you find this room? I’ve been coming here to visit my mother’s tomb for years. I’ve explored these passages when I was bored or needed to get away from you.” 

I can’t see his face very well, despite the candles burning in the sconces on the wall, but I’m sure he’s sneering at me. (That’s his trademark expression where I’m concerned.) 

“I’ve never seen this room before,” he continues. “Where did it come from?”

“I was casting finding spells the first time. And again when I was looking for you when you didn’t show up at the start of term this year. But I haven’t had to cast any spells since. I just know where to find it.” I shrug again. “Or it knows where to find me.”

“And you have no clues about who she is?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. I’ve been looking for weeks now. I’ve thought about her a lot since fifth year, but I hadn’t really come down here to try and puzzle it out until you came up missing.”

I walk the few paces across the room until I’m standing directly in front of her. I reach out my hand to touch hers again. It’s something I’ve done every time I come here. To let her know she’s not alone.

“What spells have you cast on the painting?”

“Uhh, I haven’t.” I drop my hand and face him again. “Not on the painting directly.”

“Crowley, you’re thick.” His words hit me harder than they probably should. “You’ve been coming down here trying to solve a mystery, but haven’t cast any spells on the object you’re trying to understand?”

“I’m shit at spells, you know that,” I try to defend myself. “I tried bringing Penny down here once, but we couldn’t find the room. I don’t think it wanted to be found.”

“Interesting.” He sounds honestly intrigued. The idea that the painting allowed itself to be found by Baz but not Penny is a bit unsettling and something that I don’t really understand. 

Baz crosses the room, putting a hand to the painting like I’d done earlier.  
He drops his hand suddenly and takes a step back. 

“Okay, Snow. Try casting an intention spell.”

I stop and think. I don’t know which intention spells would work on a painting. I don’t know many to begin with.

_**“Reveal yourself!”** _

Nothing happens.

_**“The name of the game!”**_ I try again. Nothing happens. 

“You really are bad at this,” Baz mutters under his breath. As if I wasn’t aware. 

“Back up, let me try,” he says. _**“True colors!”**_

A black aura appears around the painting. It’s right creepy. I’m not sure what black means when using that spell, but it can’t be good. 

Baz’s face scrunches a bit when he sees the color. 

“What’s black mean, then?” I ask him. He’s clearly not about to just _tell_ me. 

“Nothing that you hadn’t already guessed. I would assume it means the painting is cursed or enchanted.” 

“Do you know any other spells?” I ask. I’m sure he must.

Baz points his wand at the painting and begins chanting,

_**“Poor Jenny is a-weeping,  
A-weeping, a-weeping,  
Poor Jenny is a-weeping  
On a bright summer’s day.”** _

_****_

_****_

His shoulders are tight, the spell winding through him.

It’s another nursery rhyme, like the one he cast on the dragon. 

The girl’s hair begins to shimmer. Her cheeks glisten with the tears. 

I press a hand to Baz’s shoulder. We’ve only tried this one time. It was an accident then, and should never’ve worked. 

I have a better sense of what I’m doing this time, though. Turning on the tap inside of me, letting my magic spill into him. 

Baz is projecting the spell with my magic—focusing the power into something usable.

_**“Why are you weeping,  
Weeping, weeping,  
Why are you weeping,  
On a bright summer's day?”** _

His words boom now, darker and richer than his regular speaking voice.  
The girl lifts her head. Actually _lifts_ her fucking head in the portrait frame and looks directly at me, chanting in response.

_**“I'm weeping for a loved one,  
A loved one, a loved one,  
I'm weeping for a loved one,  
On a bright summer's day.” ** _

It’s the next line in the rhyme, I think. I wonder if it’s true—that she’s weeping for a loved one—or if it’s just a coincidence that Baz thought to use this nursery rhyme.  
My hand falls from Baz’s shoulder as I take a step forward.

“Who—” I start to ask. “Who is your loved one? Is that why you’re trapped there?”  
I’m not sure if she can actually answer me. If there are rules to the spell, to her ability to communicate. 

“Simon, Simon, my rosebud boy,” she says with a haunted look on her face. 

_I know that voice. Those words._

“You...” I trail off. I thought that had been Baz’s mum that night. 

“I would never have left you,” she whispers. 

“Who are you? What happened to you? How did you end up here?” The questions tumble out of me, one after another. I’m not sure which I want her to answer first. 

“You’re so strong, my love. I knew you would be. The power of powers, just like he said.” 

“But—” 

_What does she mean?_

“Hush my love, I don’t have long and I have so much I want to tell you.”

I feel something squeeze my forearm, just a soft squeeze. Comforting. Reassuring.  
My eyes dart down for a moment.

Baz’s hand is on my arm, tethering me to reality. It feels nice, having him here. 

“I wanted to keep you safe. Raise you to be bold, and brave, and just as any savior should be. Raise you to know every day, without a doubt, that you are loved and wanted. I worried that without a mother’s gentle hand for guidance, you could grow to be used as a weapon.”

She’s beginning to shimmer around the edges. Not a red shimmer laced with smoke like I do when I’m about to go off, but a golden one. I’m not sure if this is supposed to be part of the spell that Baz cast or something else. 

“I loved you from the moment we made you. I knew when it happened, I could feel your magic even then. The power of the Greatest Mage growing inside me. I loved you more the moment you were born and your father held you up to me, covering us both in kisses and casting every safeguard he knew over our heads. But sometimes, even magic isn’t enough. I saw you. I loved you. I wanted you. I never wanted to leave you.”

The shimmering has enveloped her entire body now. I blink a couple of times, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me. Her body is becoming more translucent within the frame. 

I’ve encountered enough creatures and curses to know that anything can happen, but this time is different. I want to keep her. She can’t leave me again. I just got her back, even if it’s not really her.

“I’m fading, Simon. You need to know. He did this to me, to us—but not because he’s evil. He’s not evil Simon. I hope you understand that. He is blinded by his need to change the world. He loved me, just as he loves you.”

“He was the most powerful magician before you were born, you know. My spirit was fading when you were brought into this world. I had felt myself fading for months. I had hoped your birth would give me back a bit of my old self. I knew carrying you would be difficult, but neither of us thought it would be all consuming. I faded as I held you, and he did the only thing he could think of. He captured the last shreds of my spirit in this painting, to preserve me. To hold me close. To tether him, like a kite on a string.”

“I’ve tried to talk to you through these walls. Even thought you heard me a few times. I brought you here, tried to make you understand. And you did. You did exactly what you needed to, with the person you needed to.”

She’s faded almost completely now. I stand there, frozen in the shock and horror of what she’s told me. Paralyzed by the prospect of losing her again so soon.

“Please know, none of this was your fault, Simon. You were the child we would have had even without adding the spells to make you the Greatest Mage.”

She’s faded completely now. Nothing but a whisper of her voice remains. 

“I love you, Simon. Simon. My rosebud boy.”

I stand there, waiting for something more. Another manifestation perhaps. 

A thumb wipes something wet from my cheek. 

I hadn’t even noticed I’d been crying.

“Simon,” Baz’s voice is soft. Softer than anything I’ve ever heard come from him.  
“I have—” the words won’t come. My mum. That was my mum. She wasn’t a Normal that abandoned me.

“She was—” I still don’t know how to finish that sentence. What I can say.

“She was your mother, Simon. And she loved you.” 

Baz’s words hit me. I had a mother that loved me. Loved me from the moment I was created. From my first pulse of magic. She wasn’t scared of me, she loved me.

Baz’s hand is still grasping my arm. Grounding me in a moment when everything should be falling apart. I don’t know what to do with all of these thoughts. I want to stop thinking about them. This is something that I can’t do anything about. I can’t change that my mum is gone. That my father trapped her in that painting. That she was taken from me. 

I collapse into Baz’s chest, all of the thoughts finally crashing into me until I crumble under the weight. 

Baz sucks in a sharp breath. It’s probably a shock having your enemy suddenly so vulnerable and sobbing into your shirt. 

But we’re not enemies anymore, are we? Not really.

BAZ

Simon Snow is a mess, crumpled into my chest. It feels unreasonably good to have his warm body pressed into me.

I could close my eyes and almost imagine that Simon chose to seek me out for comfort. That out of everybody else, he chose me. 

The only thing tethering me to our reality is the ache in my jaw and the uncomfortable burn on my chest where our bodies are pinning his cross between us. There are layers of shirts and jackets between, but I can still feel its presence. I can always feel it. But now is not the time to remind him of what I am. 

This is an ache I can bear. 

I tentatively lift a hand and let it run through the short tufts of curls that have started to grow back on his head. 

“It’s alright, Simon,” I whisper into the top of his head. “Everything will be alright.”

I’ve never been very good at comforting other people. That’s simply not something Grimms or Pitches are raised to do. But I want to—for Simon. I would cross any line for him. 

It takes a few minutes, but eventually he’s able to calm down enough to pull himself away from me. 

“She was my mum,” he whispers, finally giving voice to the thought. “She—” he stumbles on his words. The words he needs to say aloud to make them real. As if he’s casting a spell to make himself believe them. “She loved me. She died loving me.” He says the words so quietly, only a vampire would be able to hear them.  
I stay quiet, giving him the time he needs to process what we heard. 

“She said she made me the Greatest Mage.” His face scrunches up, his eyebrows knit together. He’s thinking, processing what it all means. I’ve been watching Simon for almost half of our lives. I can read him as well as any book. 

“No, Simon. She said they made you.” I try to keep my words gentle. “I would be willing to wager she didn’t cast that spell on herself. The way she talked about wanting and loving you, I don’t know if she would have cast any spell herself.” I’ve known a mother’s love. What a mother would do to protect her child. 

“She said he loves me.”

“She did,” I agree. I’ve been thinking about that. The way she had said loves and not loved. If his father is still out there somewhere, he deserves the opportunity to meet him. Even if that means that his father is the one who dropped him off at the care home when he was only a day old. “Snow, you agreed to help me track down my mother’s killer and avenge her death.”

“I still haven’t agreed to avenge,” he mumbles under his breath.

“I propose an addendum to our truce,” I continue, ignoring what he just said. “You will help me avenge my mother's death, and I will help you track down your family. If your father is still alive, we’ll find him. Together.”

I hold out a hand for him to shake. 

“Why would you promise that? That won’t help you. Are you plotting while we’re on a truce?”

“It’s not a plot, you numpty.” He is so frustratingly thick. I want to kick him. I want to kiss him. “She was your mother. And you never got to know her. And that’s not fair.” I mirror his words back at him—what he had told me when he offered to help find my mother’s killer. “Now shake on it, Snow.” 

“You called me Simon before,” he says.

“No, I didn’t.” I can’t believe he’s going to make me live to regret the moment of vulnerability I showed him. I should’ve known better, letting my guard down like that. Simon will never see me as anything more than his enemy. Or perhaps a begrudging ally.

SIMON

“No, I didn’t,” Baz says with that posh superiority he’s always using on me. Like he’s better than me, even when he’s trying to be nice.

“Yes, you did.” I insist. I don’t know why it’s so important that he calls me by my proper name. “I like it.”

I’d never noticed it before tonight, the way my name sounds on his lips. I like it more than anything else he’s ever said to me.

“Fine. _Simon_.” He enunciates my name and the sound sends a spark through me. “Shake on the amended terms of our truce. But I’m adding another addition. No more accusing me of plotting. No plotting, no aggression. You’ll help me avenge my mother’s death and I will help you find your family.”

“Together,” I add. 

I need him to know that I want to do all of this together. 

I like working with him.

I like being near him. 

I like this better than fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> Kris, you're a saint and honestly, I cannot thank you enough for everything you've done for me over the past eight months. Not just over the last couple months while going above and beyond to beta-read and ghostwrite the MTL fic for me, but personal epiphanies that I never would have realized if not for how open and honest you've always been. You've been one of the biggest influences on me finally understanding myself, and for that I'll never be able to thank you enough. I hope you have an amazing birthday. You deserve the world.
> 
>   
> **Come say hello to me on[Tumblr!](http://foolofabookwyrm.tumblr.com/) I love new friends!**


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